Page 40 of The Rebellious Countess (The Ruined Duchess #2)
Whispered curses befitting a sailor sounded at his back.
He turned and gripped her arm, shaking his head for her to be quiet.
A moment later the lock snicked free, and he turned around and grasped her arm again, pulling her close enough to whisper into her ear, “Stay at my back. Grasp the back of my shirt. I want you close enough to feel you there.”
Her hand bunched a handful of his shirt under his stolen jacket and he cautiously made his way into the darkened interior of the abbey. It was not the altar.
Damnation. He’d chosen the wrong door. Going over the maps in his head, he oriented himself and prayed he didn’t make another mistake, because once again, no sconces were lit.
They entered the darkened room with Máira sticking close as he’d instructed.
He reached up to feel sconces as they passed and found them cold and burnt down to nub.
The candles had not been replaced. Something was going on at Mont Saint Michel that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand tall.
A moan reverberated off the stone walls, and he froze, the sound eerily like that of the dead coming back to life.
“Simon,” she whispered.
He turned and covered her mouth with his hand while holding the back of her head with his other.
He shook his head and waited a heartbeat, and another.
With his lips at her ear he whispered, “If there is a prisoner close, a guard may be closer. At the other end of this room is the chaplaincy. Father Charles said the guards sleep there.”
She nodded and pulled his hand away. Once again, they proceeded with caution until a squeak was accompanied by another moan. They waited in silence. Another loud squeak echoed down through the second stairwell from above them.
The stairs curved in a steep, narrow spiral, making him concentrate on what was in front of him instead of the woman clinging to his shirt.
Pitch black turned to a shade lighter as the flickering glow from a torch began to filter from up above.
Gradually the light became brighter, making him want to curse it and thank the heavens for the visibility it lent at the same time.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused and looked down a long hallway banked with connecting arches that created individual temples to every saint ever canonized.
Iron bars blocked off the sections of the hallway that had once held small alcoves for worship.
It was ironically fitting to see bars where worship should occur, since the country had been at war with the Church, and the Church had been at war with the country as long as he could remember.
Each seemed to want to hold the other accountable for sins they both committed.
Nearby moaning broke the silence once more, until someone yelled in a very unchristian manner for the person in misery to be quiet.
“Are these the prisoners?” She whispered.
He nodded, hoping to keep her silent.
“Do you think Simon is here?” She started to walk past him.
He glared at her, grabbing hold of her arm to both silence her and keep her where she was.
She started to argue and he pulled her back into the shadows, pushed her against the wall and trapped her there with his body, his forearms resting on the stone wall on each side of her head.
He felt her breath hitch, saw her teeth pull at her bottom lip, and sensed her awareness of him as a man, just as his own body recognized the soft feminine curves being hidden by men’s attire.
Mon Dieu , but she did things to him. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear as she shivered from his effect.
“There are more prisoners here, any of which might do anything to be freed. They will give us away in a heartbeat if given the chance to save themselves.”
She froze as she understood the danger. Even the most desperate, desolate prisoner being held in this building could pose a threat to their survival, and they couldn’t risk one of them tipping off a guard to a stranger’s presence for the mere reward of a meal.
He’d heard the stories of prisoners-of-war too desperate to care about anything but survival.
“You will act as my prisoner, going forward. Do as I say. Understand?”
She nodded in agreement. He indulged in the briefest of kisses, uncertain of their future in the midst of this danger.
He pulled away, then placed one more upon her lips before stepping back and taking her hand as he headed toward the opening to the cloister. There he pushed her in front of him, grabbed her by the scruff of her collar and proceeded forward.
The first three cells were full of inmates sleeping on the floor, huddled away from their cellmates as if they were claiming a small place in the depressing cell as their own.
The fourth held a man who was sitting up against the wall, staring out at them, a cough rattling his lungs as they passed.
Despite the living, breathing person sitting before them, it was obvious from the flat sheen of his eyes, the man had given up on life, as his blank gaze barely tracked their progress before closing—possibly for good.
Elias gave Máira a shake, just to remind her not to get caught up in the stories of these men. The abbey may have been known as the City of Books , housing the scribes before printing presses were invented, but currently it looked as if it were the City of Sorrow.
“This is not a place of worship.” The English words slipped from Máira’s mouth as if the conditions had shocked her so much, they could not be contained.
“Not for English dogs caught spying,” Elias responded in angry French, and gave her a small push for show. If he had not been holding onto her shirt collar, he had no doubt his shove would have sent her sprawling onto the filthy floor in front of him as she stumbled and turned to glare.
A young boy of seven or eight came scurrying down the hall out of nowhere. Elias stopped, pulling Máira back with him, away from the torch, away from being seen in any recognizable manner. The boy stood in full view in front of them, the light glistening off his dirty brown hair.
“ Que désirez-vous, Monsieur ?” He asked.
Blast it. Another hiccup in his plan. The child could be an asset or he could be their downfall, depending on how well he hid Máira’s identity as a woman, and how believably she portrayed a British spy.
“You can bring the two of us food. We’ve been traveling for two days without so much as a spoonful of millet or turnips,” Máira responded, the deepening of her voice in the French language too sultry to be that of a man’s.
The boy frowned, either surprised a prisoner would answer for a guard, or he was trying to figure out just exactly what she was. Her comment left Elias no choice but to shake her even harder by the scruff of her collar.
“You can help by taking me to the cell of the British earl. This one’s to be held with him and ensure he is in good health until the ransom is received.
” He gave an uncaring laugh that made even Máira shrink back from him.
“Apparently this lad was supposed to meet the earl to transfer information to the British army. One way or another, I’ll get that information out of the earl.
” Elias nodded down the hall as if directing the boy to lead the way.
The boy hesitated. Uncertainty flitting across his face.
“Do as he says, lad, or it will only get worse for all of us.” Máira’s French was stilted this time as she stumbled over words she’d previously used flawlessly.
The boy turned on his heel and was on his way, glancing back over his shoulder to see if they followed.
Elias released her collar and pushed Máira as gently as he dared.
She stumbled, but righted herself quickly, glared at him over her shoulder once more, and followed the boy as if she were doing as she pleased.
If they had been children, he would have pulled her hair; as it was, he simply growled and prayed the boy didn’t notice her lack of concern for him as her captor.
As they headed for another hallway leading toward the refectory, he dearly hoped the boy was taking them to Astley and not a guard or guard station.
Only a moment later loud noises ahead of them signaled that something was wrong.
There was too much commotion inside the dining hall the boy was leading them toward at a hurried pace.
If the room had been divided into cells as Father Charles had described, there would not be this much noise or movement.
“Máira,” he whispered. He reached for her, but missed as she hurried in a manner no man ever would, to keep up with the boy.
At a time when everything was not what it should be, he and Máira should be sticking to the shadows and avoiding the busy areas—not heading directly into the middle of the very full dining hall—the busiest place they’d encountered thus far.
Whether the boy was double-crossing them or the priest had, Elias wasn’t certain, but the boy was leading them into what could only be a trap.
“Máira!” he hissed, but she deafly passed through the large arched doorway and into the refectory where she stopped dead in her tracks.
With one hand on his pistol and the other on the sheath of his knife, he entered the large hall with the authority of a guard and found the place was indeed the exact opposite of where the priest had said prisoners were being held.
The hall had been turned into a makeshift hospital filled with soldiers and guards, men so ill they could barely move. They were feebly lying on the tables and the floor.